


The Streets of Persuasion

by OniTaiji



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternative Perspective, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-12 10:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18444860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniTaiji/pseuds/OniTaiji
Summary: Sebastian Moran is in trouble. This time, it's serious. In order to settle an old debt, he finds himself thrown into the deepest parts of the criminal underbelly of London working for Jim Moriarty.





	1. Chapter 1

Bright light shone into his eyes as the blindfold was removed. Sebastian was in an old warehouse, on his knees, surrounded. A group of five men stood around him with their faces covered by bandanas. One of them had a knife and another had a baseball bat, tapping it rhythmically into his palm. Sebastian felt the tight cable ties dig into his wrists. One of the men, tall and unarmed, stepped forward and spoke.

"Where's our money, soldier? Where is it?" The man grabbed Sebastian's face with dirty fingers. 

"I don't have it." 

A thud echoed around the warehouse as the baseball bat was smacked against his back suddenly. Sebastian gritted his teeth. The previous beatings he had endured recently left his body all but numb to the strike.

"You said you'd have it today. So you're a liar, huh? You know what happens to liars?" The man with a knife stepped forward now. Despite his mouth being covered, it was clear his voice was thick with a gruff European accent that Sebastian was too disorientated to pinpoint further. The man who had just struck him raised the bat above his shoulder with two hands, getting ready to strike again.

"Give me … one week." Sebastian looked each of the men in the eye in turn. The bat was lowered with a signal by the man with the knife. For a moment, it was silent. 

"One week? Okay. A week." The knifeman turned around, nodding, before lunging towards Sebastian, grabbing him by the shirt, and holding the knife to his throat. "… Fifteen grand in seven days. Or … " He let the blade rest firmly against Sebastian's neck for a few more seconds. "We get our money back in organs."

The gang bundled Sebastian back into a van, cut the ties on his wrists and threw him out by the steps of Conduit Estate where his flat was. The ordeal had only lasted half an hour but had felt like hours. Struggling to his feet, Sebastian staggered up the three flights of stairs to his door, opening it and going into the bathroom.

A glance in the mirror revealed blood on his shirt and his body was now decorated in various new wounds and marks inflicted upon him. His eyebrow had been split by one cut, and he felt his lower back ache from a large bruise in the rough shape of a boot below the impression of the baseball bat. He spat out some of the blood that had gathered in his mouth before assessing the rest of the damage. Warm water washed away most of the blood. The bruises he had would fade over time. Everything below the neck was superficial.

The slash across his face was a different story. It wasn’t deep and would heal, but it would definitely leave a scar.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Sebastian made phone calls, looking for any jobs going. He started with the builders, shopkeepers, any honest job with basic cash-in-hand offers, to no avail. The more rejection he received, the more questionable the people he contacted became. The type of people who knew the true meaning of 'willing to do anything for cash'. His persistence paid off when an old university friend, Ron, rang him back between calls.

"Basher! Long time no talk. You made it back alive then?"

"Just about." Sebastian smiled to himself. At least someone was glad to hear from him. "… You have work going then?"

"Not personally but I know someone who might. How about we meet and discuss this in person?"

Sebastian hesitated. He needed a job right now, not a reunion, but meeting Ron might be the only opportunity available. "Sure, how about later this evening?"

"If you’re still in that old shoebox, I know a place round the corner. Caspian, they call it. Can’t miss it. Bloody great statue of some monster on top of it. I'll be there at 8."

Sebastian felt some of the weight on his shoulders lift. He just needed this job to pay off. Ron had always been the sort of man to get business done by the rules, or bend them if it was more convienent. Funnily enough, the rules were often not convienent at all in his mind. Quickly pulling the directions up on his phone, Sebastian saw that the bar was indeed around the corner. If he also took a few corners along the way. It would take him half an hour to walk there and he didn't have a lot of spare change for the bus or a taxi. 

His eyes glanced over to the white powder still sat in the bag on the table. Sebastian had a high tolerance for most things. Alcohol, pain, bullshit. He didn't ever expect for drugs to become his Achilles' Heel. His brain craved another hit. He needed it badly. His hands were twitching. He needed it.

 _Fuck it._ Sebastian thought. He stood up after snorting a small hit and made his way into his bedroom. Looking into his wardrobe, it felt like something was missing. He scanned the coathangers one by one, but everything seemed to be in place. Sebastian wondered whether he should take his pistol. He felt uneasy despite Ron being someone he thought he could trust. His mind was racing. He needed to calm himself and settle before heading out. Taking a jacket out of the wardrobe, Sebastian slowly put it down on the bed. He went into the bathroom to splash his face with water and was caught off-guard by the wound across his face in the mirror that he had somehow forgotten about since this morning. Drying his face, he looked at his watch and saw the time was already 7:30. _Was I staring at a wardrobe for half an hour?_ Sebastian didn't think that much time had passed. Opting to not take any weapons, he grabbed the jacket and left his flat. 

Ron had been right about one thing; the 'Caspian' was impossible to miss. Sebastian had made his way to the meetingplace and two large tiki torches stood at the entrance. The statue on the roof was a giant cat, arched up and snarling. Inside, the decor was less exciting and seemed just like an ordinary bar. There was no one else around other than the bartender who carried on cleaning glasses without looking up as he entered. Sebastian considered sitting at the bar for a moment, before finding a table in the far corner. He still had no idea what sort of work was on offer and it was probably easier to be discreet. 

Another hour passed before Ron finally showed up. Entering the bar with the subtlety of a buffalo on bubblewrap, Sebastian didn't welcome his old friend with open arms, but instead waited for him to sit down. Ron sat back, his left arm relaxed against the wall while looking at Sebastian. His clean dark gray suit was a stark contrast to the casual attire he always donned in the old days. Ron raised an eyebrow.

“You look like you’ve been in a war zone. Oh, I mean-” Ron stumbled over his words for a second before Sebastian interjected.

"You took your time."

"You know me, not one to come first." Ron grinned widely before taking a peanut from the bowl on the table. Sebastian didn't smile. He took his time before speaking again. "Be grateful. I know about a potential job offer."

"How soon do I get paid?" 

"You don't even know the details yet ... " Pulling out his smartphone, Ron spent a few seconds typing. "... The hours aren't long and the work shouldn’t be difficult for a man like you.” Sebastian nodded. He knew what that meant. Although he had his morals, he didn't have any other choice. 

"... You probably won't even have to meet the guy. I'm just a businessman, Seb, I don't need a hired thug. No offence, mate. I just happen to know who wants one." Ron seemed to speak very casually about the topic and Sebastian wondered if Ron's 'business' was something more than synergy, team meetings and nice suits.

Ron briefly paused to chew. "… Five grand per job is what I’ve heard though."

It took Sebastian less than ten seconds to process the information. "When can I start?"

"Well I don’t kn-” Ron's phone vibrated in his hand and he answered. His smile fell at once and all colour seemed to drain from his face. "... So you did show up."

"I was here before you were," Sebastian replied in confusion, before realising it was no longer Ron talking to him.“How good of a shot are you?”

“Shot the eye out of a terrorist commander's skull good.” Sebastian took a sip of the beer in front of him. It was an interview after all. He watched as Ron's jaw quivered in between echoed words. It was strange watching his old friend terrified of a voice at the other end of a phone.

"Are you still capable?" 

"Yes."

"Confident ... That’s very good." Ron was starting to sweat and as he brought his head to his hand to wipe his brow, Sebastian noticed the bartender aiming a gun in their direction. The barrel followed Ron's head down, disappearing as he levelled his head once more. He started to wish he had brought the gun. "But confidence is nothing without proof." Sebastian wasn’t given time to reply. His own phone buzzed and on the screen were two messages.

_On the roof is your rifle.  
Time for some target practice._

Ron lowered his own phone from his ear and was left in stunned silence. The bartender walked over to the table with a blank expression. The barrel of the gun was now facing Sebastian. "This way." He beckoned and Sebastian wanted to ask questions, like how they got into his flat, or knew he had the rifle, but stopped himself. He wasn't in the mood for a drink anymore, and he worried that asking questions would result in a serving of a 'Bloody Moran'.

A small staircase led to the rooftop, and the bartender didn't follow. He flicked his long hair away from his own face and gestured for Sebastian to go up, while refocussing on Ron, who had not moved from his seat. Each step creaked as he put his weight onto them and the door at the top was encrusted with dirt and rust. As promised, his rifle was there in a case and a round of ammunition in a small pouch beside it. Another text came through in that moment.

_British Army standard, so don’t blame the bullets if you miss._

Sebastian put the phone down to assemble and load the gun. He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he was being watched as he did it. Maybe it was the drugs talking. He wasn't sure, but he certainly felt sober as a result of the unconventional job interview. From the roof, he could see a satellite dish that had been decorated with red paint to look like a target. For a moment, Sebastian stopped. He couldn’t tell if this was really just a joke or a set-up. In Afghanistan, he had been shooting men between the eyes in the middle of a desert and now he was stopping a Londoner from watching re-runs of ‘Dog the Bounty Hunter’. The thought of the money enabled him to swallow his pride and pick up the rifle.

Sebastian took a deep breath, steadying his hands and lining up the shot. It had been a while since he had done this, but rigorously trained muscle memory made it seem like it was only yesterday.He felt the bullet launch out of the chamber, the brunt of the force hitting his shoulder, and watched it travel through the air. Within a second, the satisfying sound of contact echoed out and the dish fell. As Sebastian turned around, he noticed the bartender had joined him on the rooftop. 

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Your babysitter." The stranger extended a hand. "He calls me 'Wolf’. He gives everyone nicknames. Literal pet names." Sebastian shook his hand warily. The man spoke with a Midwest American accent. "You’ll get yours eventually. He likes to make them personal." Sebastian raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Wolf shrugged and also said nothing. Instead, he took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it with the lighter in his other hand, offering it to Sebastian, who took it tentitively, as Wolf found a second one in the pocket for himself.

The timing could not have been better, as a sinister message came through to Sebastian’s phone.

_Day 1 is over. Only 6 to go. I look forward to seeing your liver, Moran._

Sebastian and Wolf were on the rooftop for about ten minutes after this. He was told that there would be a message in the morning and instructions would follow.

The money would be transferred to his account before the target is cold.

That’s all he needed to know.


	2. Far From First Blood

The next morning, Sebastian was up early. He didn't want to miss the message. 'Wolf' promised to give him the details by 10am on a handset he had been given for the occasion. It wasn’t even 9am when the message came through.

_Target: Tim Ferrison [photo attached]_  
Location: Leaves London Direct Bank between 12:00 - 12:35 for lunch [photo attached]  
I recommend the opposing offices. Empty for months now, no security and low police presence. 

Sebastian glanced over the details one more time, ignoring the text reminding him of the countdown for his next payment before placing the phone back into his trouser pocket. The post dropping onto the carpet almost made him jump. He wasn't nervous about the job, but being caught travelling on the Tube with a 7kg bolt-action murder-machine strapped to his back. That wouldn't be an easy one to explain to police. _Oh yeah, I was just taking my sniper rifle for a walk to settle my drug debt._

In the end, he placed the gun into an old golf bag and left the flat. Sebastian locked the door to his flat, double-checking it, and headed to the stairs. As he got to the ground floor, he bumped into the man who lived above him, Alfred, with his service dog. 

"Sebastian!" There was evident joy in the old man's one good eye. "Staying out of trouble, I hope?" 

"I try." Sebastian forced a smile.

"That's the soldier in you," Alfred took his time to rest a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Brave and charming. Just like I used to be!" Holding his tongue, Sebastian nodded respectfully and gently patted the gray-faced dog as the elderly gentleman made his way up the stairs. Sebastian could feel the weight of the gun on his back as well as his conscience. He could feel it pressing into one of the bruises he gained in his recent encounter with the gang. He swallowed hard at the thought of this new line of work following him home. The boss who was giving the commands already knew where he lived and had broken in. He didn't doubt that if he killed the wrong man, he could do much worse than that. 

His mind, as usual, was racing. Reaching into his pocket, Sebastian found a twenty pound note he didn't know he had. Almost instantly, his mind calmed slightly. He could afford a cab and avoid the Tube with the cash. _Or ..._ Less productive thoughts crawled into his head. Clutching the note tightly with determination, Sebastian walked up to a black cab parked just up the road. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sebastian asked the driver to drop him off about a mile away from the vantage point he had picked out for himself.

The streets were pretty empty. The financial crisis of the previous year was still taking a toll on businesses, many had their shutters down and empty windows. Some men in hoodies stood in the alleyway with hands in their pockets.

The bank was an exception, on the opposite side of the street with shiny windows and a new paint job. If a building could be proud, London Direct Bank certainly would be proud to the point of smugness.

As the driver pulled up to the curb to let him out, a man approached the hooded men in the alley. He was tall and unassuming, but there was something about him that had Sebastian captivated. The stranger handed the men a piece of paper before carrying on down the street without missing a beat. 

"That's £10.20, mate." The taxi driver said impatiently. Sebastian shook his head slightly, mumbled an apology, grabbed his bag from the back seat and headed down the street away from the bank. The text mentioned offices nearby and sure enough, the empty offices sat above the shops that also had no signs of life or commerce. The man had long gone and the alleyway had emptied. With one more glance over his shoulder, Sebastian slipped into the alleyway to the back of the shops, where a door barely on its hinges greeted him. 

Pushing it open gently, the door led to a corridor with two other doors and a further staircase at the end. A climb up three more stairs and he reached the summit of the building. As dusty and dilapidated as the other floors, the top floor provided a vantage point of the bank across the road that wouldn't be being watched. Sebastian had thought about his escape plan, straight down the staircases during the initial commotion. 

If the police suspected some sort of terrorist or wannabe mass murderer is on the loose, the response time would make it impossible to escape. His previous encounters with the authorities suggest that anything else should take long enough to arrive for him to get far away. He just needed to be out of the area and not be seen by anyone at the scene. 

Sebastian's heart was racing but his mind felt clear. He had done this a thousand times. This was just a task. A matter of life and death.

It just so happened this time, it was also a matter of money and survival.

Setting up the rifle at the window, Sebastian glanced at his watch. 12:03. _Shit._ He prayed that he hadn't missed his mark, but no sooner than the thought crossed his mind, Tim Ferrison appeared at the door of London Direct Bank. 

He was talking to someone in the building, but his palm was pressed up against the glass as he readied himself to leave. Sebastian watched intently down the sight, waiting for his chance to strike. 

In Afghanistan, he knew who his targets were. Terrorists. Militants. Whatever name they gave to the targets he needed to eliminate.

This was different.

London is no battlefield. There was no war. He had no idea who he was aiming down the sights at anymore. Bankers. Fathers. People oblivious to their status as marked men. The only thing that remained the same was the gun.  
Sebastian crouched at the window, keeping as little as possible of himself visible. The only sounds were the occasional passing car and his own breathing. Each movement he observed made him freeze and place a finger over the trigger. He dared not look away for a second in case his target managed to escape him in his moment of lapsed concentration.

Finally, out of the glass doors emerged the tall man with light blonde hair. This was the man he had been waiting for. The target.

He lined up the shot and held his breath.

The gunshot echoed, sending a spray of blood out of the gaping hole now in his target's head. Like a broken faucet spewing scarlet, the body landed hard against the pavement, decorating the ground beneath him. Sebastian didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief before disassembling the gun and placing it back into his bag. He knew he had to move quickly.

Yet his mind, heavy with thoughts, began to slow him.

Tim Ferrison. Young. Married. Dead. Guilty?

Thoughts about the money took over and drowned out the others. 

Five grand earned in less than an hour. Two more jobs and this time next week, he would be able to go back to living his normal, insignificant life.


End file.
